


What a Lovely Way to Burn

by cornsilk



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Bad Parenting, Broken Families, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Coming of Age, Country AU, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting Together, Growing Up, Growing Up Together, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Neglect, Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Slurs, Sweet, Teaching, Violence, rural au, will update tags with the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-09-21 09:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17041178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornsilk/pseuds/cornsilk
Summary: Keith and Lance met at the age of 8 in the heatwave summer of '77, when Lance's small, broken family moved in two houses down from Keith's small, broken family in rural Kansas.Hidden among tall, dry grasses and sun-drenched fields, the two grow up together.Warnings for homophobia, violence, and eventual smut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone :)  
> I started writing this story a long time ago, but in light of season 8, I've decided to start posting it.  
> I'm not sure it will end entirely happily, but I can guarantee that it will be long and sweet and angsty and sun-filled and nostalgic. I'll update the tags with the content.  
> Please let me know if there are any errors, and every comment and kudos means the world to me.  
> Thank you so much for reading.  
> Enjoy <3

April 8th, 1977

Lance McClain blinks bleary eyes open, pushing himself up to sit on the bench seat in the back of his dad’s Corvair. He’s careful not to disturb Gus, who’s curled up under a couple blankets beside him, breathing soft and slow. The stars shine bright, casting everything Lance can see in delicate blue light. His father snores and huffs from the front seat and the leftover dream-smells of over-sanitized floors and chemicals leak from Lance’s mind. The image of blinding white surrounding him disintegrates and Lance props an elbow up in the shallow window cavity. Trees leave dark shapes on the ground. Three days left in Mexico, Lance thinks. Three more days of heart aching accents and beating sun before his Father drops off whatever’s in the trunk that Lance’s not allowed to look at and picks up something else to drive back up into the States. Lance knows the drill. It’s been the same for almost two years now. Lance will miss the food that makes him cry and the colours that look something like home and the huge cacti they often see among the vast emptiness on the sides of the road. 

Three more days, then it all begins again.  
 

June 16th, 1977

“For real, Dad?” Lance’s voice is high and shrill but he can’t even bring himself to care, to pull it back to the manliest tones a seven-year old can produce. “For real?!”

Gus echoes him, bouncing up and down on his seat, seatbelt forgotten. “For real, for real, for real?!”

His Father chuckles, but Lance can hear the exhaustion behind it.

“Yes, boys. For real. I think it’s about time we find a more permanent home, don’t you?” His smirk is subtle and proud and for the first time since the tragedy, David carries the distinct feeling that he’s doing something good for his sons.

“Where are we gonna find a home?” Lance asks.

 

“Wherever we want. Pick a State, boys.” They’ve been to most states by now, some twice or more, and David knows his boys have found something good to say about every single one of them.

“OklaHOME-a!” Gus shouts, bursting into a fit of giggles.

“No!” Lance yells over him, pushing Gus’s arms away where he swings them in his face. 

“No, Kansas!”

A surprised chuckle bubbles up from David’s throat. “Kansas? Why?”

“Last time we drove through there we saw like, ten bears!”

“Bears don’t live in Kansas, Lance.” David deadpans at the same time as Gus whines, “Bears?! No. No, I don’t want bears! Lance, I don’t want bears!” his face screwing up in the start of a tantrum.

“Yeah, well tell that to the ones we saw on the Interstate!”

David takes a fortifying breath. They’re doing this. They’re really doing this. “Gus?” He looks at him through the rear-view. He’s got his arms crossed, lips pursed in a pout. “Kansas?”

Gus takes a big breath, his shoulders lowering but his arms not uncrossing. “Okay. Kansas.”

“Kansas.” Lance repeats, a smile taking up half his face. “This is gonna be awesome.”  
 

June 26th, 1977

Lance grabs Gus’s chubby little hands and they start swinging around the lawn, dancing ridiculous dances to songs only they can hear. Their smiles are so bright and so wide David’s chest aches. His guilt and his shame weigh heavy on his shoulders. He needs a drink. The prim woman in the suit beside him slaps a red ‘SOLD’ sign on the board swinging in front of the one-story white-sided building in a town of two thousand called Sparrow’s Plains. David breathes deep, taking in the wide, low wooden porch that will need more than a little work, the cloudy windows on either side of the screen door, the weeds and wildflowers growing tall beneath them. It’s not perfect, and it’s not new, and it’s not clean, but David is certain that he and his boys can turn this into a home. His heart clenches for Maria.  
 

June 28th, 1977

Lance drops the last bag inside with a huff. The up-side to moving from a car into a house is that their belongings are minimal. About four duffel bags, total. He breathes deep, taking in only the smells of wood and shelter and ignoring the stale, musty tang of a house abandoned for years. An uncontrollable smile pulls at his cheeks, which hurt already from grinning so constantly. He has a home. A real home. It’s been so long.

He swings around to face his Father, who’s taking inventory of jobs to be done. “Can I go look at the backyard, Dad?”

David nods distractedly. “Not into the forest yet. I don’t want you gettin caught in some bear trap, okay?” Lance nods hastily and rushes to the screen door on the other side of the living room that opens into the backyard. “And take your brother with you!”

“Yes, sir!” Lance calls over his shoulder, swinging around the overgrown side of the house to grab Gus’s arm from where he’s sitting poking at ants on the cracked driveway.

“Gus, come on!” Lance cries, hoisting him up onto his feet. 

Gus, pouty as ever, makes a noncommittal noise and pulls him arm out of Lance’s grasp, but runs alongside him anyway.

Lance outright cackles when he sees the land before him. He’d heard his dad talking to the lady who helped them buy this house and he’s pretty confident in saying that they have at least two acres between their house and the forest in the distance. There’s a wheat field on one side and a wooden fence holding cattle on the other. The grass under his bare feet is baked crispy and yellow and it pokes between his toes.

Lance sucks in a fortifying breath and lets out an animal cry before taking off. Gus stumbles a bit in keeping up with him so Lance slows fractionally. Gus’s legs are just starting to change from baby-fat-laden sausages to unproportionally long, thin things that Lance knows means he’s gonna be tall. Not taller than Lance, though, Lance hopes.

The yard is barren, save a few low trees that look excellent for climbing and a shallow, blackened hole he assumes used to be a fire pit. There are little tunnels every few feet that Gus trips over and Lance guesses they’re rabbit warrens or chipmunk homes or something. In the corner of the yard, stretching from the forest and curving through their yard and into the cattle’s pasture, to both their delights’, is a creek, bubbling and shallow and small and cool, and Gus squeals and claps when he approaches and four frogs jump synchronized into the water.

Lance grins at Gus, stepping carefully onto a rock in the middle of the water. “Come on, Gus. You get that one.” He points to a big flat rock beside him, the water splashing and rushing slick over its surface.

Gus eyes Lance woefully, brows upturned and nose quirked, before holding his hands out for balance and shakily placing his first bare foot on the rock.

“Lance-“ His tone is worried and nervous, but Lance scoffs and jostles his shoulder.

“Come on, Gussy, you got this.”

Gus puts all his weight on that one foot and he’s gone. The splash is loud and water soaks Lance’s shorts.

Gus’s wails start up loud and whining, and he lies there in the middle of the creek on slippery rocks and probably a few frogs, and Lance springs into action, an low, endless chant of “it’s okay, Gussy, it’s okay, you’re fine, it’s okay” on his lips as he steps carefully onto a couple rocks beside Gus and hoists him up by his forearms. Gus lets Lance pull his dead weight, head lolling back and eyes closing dramatically, being no help whatsoever.

“Ugh, Gus, you chubby beast.” Lance groans, finally pulling him up onto the shore.

“Goodbye, Lancito.” Gus says softly.

Lance snorts. “Whaddya mean goodbye?”

Gus’s answer is short, clipped, final. “I’m dead.”

“No, the frogs your big butt sat on are dead. You’re fine.” Lance kicks some loose dirt on him for good measure before turning around to face the forest.

It calls to him, the pines and oaks and tuliptrees and birches tall and mysterious and inviting. 

It’s as he’s staring into it that he sees a bush at the forest’s edge rustle. 

A dark shape darts from it to behind a tree three feet to the left.

“Gus.” Lance’s voice is suddenly quiet and he’s standing alert. Heart thrumming, fingers twitching minutely, every muscle taught. He wonders if he should’ve picked up a stick or something before they went exploring.

“WHAT?!” Gus cries emphatically from the ground. “What, Lance?! Just, what?”

“Shut up, you loser.” His tone is hushed, his eyes don’t leave that tree. A dark shape barely pokes out from behind it. “There’s someone in the forest.”

At this, Gus sits up, expression curious and open. “What kinda someone?”

“How the heck am I supposed to know?”

“Go look.”

Lance huffs and glares at Gus. “Why don’t you go look, Braveheart?”

Gus glares right back and they stay like that until another loud rustle breaks the silence of the country.

Lance stalls for a minute before he creeps forward, slow and low to the ground. “Hello?” He calls.

Absolute silence, save the buzzing of the cicadas that herald the heat.

“Hello?” He calls again, a little louder.

Lance is at the edge of the forest. The burnt grass and brome of their yard turns to green clover and moss under the shade. He looks back at his brother sitting wet and wide-eyed at the edge of the creek, and then back further to their little white house in the distance. His father has pulled the Corvair around to the side of the house.

Lance takes a step forward. And another. Pulls in a shaky breath. More rustling. To his left. The wind breathes hot against his back, as if it’s pushing him forward. His chest is rising fast and harsh. He leans forward. There’s a small shape curled behind the tree. Lance steels himself and swings around. Twin yells echo up into the sky. Gus yells faintly behind Lance, always hating being left out. And Lance finds himself face-to-face with a boy, about the same height as he.

Lance comes up dumb. His mouth gapes, taking the boy in - shaggy, tangly dark hair, pale skin, burned a little on his nose and cheeks, clothes dirt-stained and holey, and his eyes: big, round blue things, blinking owlishly at him in surprise. There’s a slingshot clutched tightly in his fist. His chapped lips are open slightly and he’s missing one of his front teeth.

“H-Hi.” Lance tries.

The boy takes a small step back, expression unchanged, and then twists so fast Lance can feel the second-hand whiplash, and he’s off running.

“Wait!” Lance finds himself yelling, taking off a split-second after. “WAIT!” He reaches forward, certain he’s going to trip. Faster, faster, he has to keep up, faster. Hopping over logs and ducking under low branches and splashing artlessly through swampy puddles. Faster. He’s never run this fast, he thinks. A little more, a little faster, his calves burning, and Lance fists the back of the boy’s shirt. He hears a distinct rip before the boy twists around and suddenly they’re both tumbling, limbs tangled, in the leaves, needles, and moss lining the forest floor.

The boy turns to glare at Lance but all Lance can do is pant for air, still holding the back of the boy’s shirt tight. “Wait,” He huffs. “Wait.” He sucks in a couple breaths and for a minute can only stare at the kid incredulously. Man, he can run. The kid just waits for Lance to catch his breath. He seems calm, his breathing soft and regular. Lance can’t help but feel a little wounded at that. “I’m Lance,” He finally manages. “We’re just movin’ in there.” He swallows and raises his free hand to point at their new home.

The boy raises an eyebrow before he speaks. “You bought Dan Dell’s house?” His voice sounds disused, rough, raspy, like Lance’s sometimes is when he just wakes up.

He looks like some Tarzan-forest-child; feral, nails ripped and dirty, cuts on his hands, forearms, knuckles. Lance wonders if he should be sitting here, talking to him. He pauses a moment to try and remember what the kid said. “I- I guess…”

The boy seems to evaluate him, eyes narrowed behind his tangly black fringe. “Where you from?”

Lance shrugs again, unable to break the strangely intense eye contact. His heart’s still going nuts. His head’s not quite working right. This all feels like some weird fever dream, the air too humid, the sun too warm, the world too still. When Lance remembers he’s supposed he answer he can only come up with, “Used to be from Cuba. Now… from everywhere, I guess.”

This answer seems to please the boy and he sits up and moves away, untangling his legs from Lances, and Lance is forced to let go of his (now-ripped) shirt. He peers into Lance’s face, while somehow maintaining a few feet of distance between them. After a couple seconds he seems to come to a decision. “I’m Keith.”

Lance nods, for some reason a blush starting to rise hot on his cheeks. “Okay.”

Keith cocks his head to the side like a puppy Gus and Lance once found outside a motel and he raises another eyebrow at him, like he’s judging him. Lance gets a weird kind of vibe from him, but he looks smart and experienced and like he has some killer stories, and Lance decides to like him.

He sticks out a hand between them and tentatively the kid shakes it. “Nice to meet you.”

Keith nods slowly. “You too..”

Lance struggles to think of something else to say, to prolong this bizarre occurrence for reasons he doesn’t understand. It just feels so surreal, so infinite, so out of time, like the world has stopped for a minute in this clearing in the trees. There are no bugs, no wind, no life besides them. Lance looks Keith over. He wonders if he’s imagining him. His feet are dirty and bare, his legs sporting a couple long scrapes and cuts, his knees scabbed and bruised, and his shorts are sagging like heck, and then Lance zeroes in on what’s clenched in his dusty fist. “Cool slingshot.”

The answer is immediate, Keith’s eyes not moving from Lance’s. “Thanks.”

There’s a beat where it’s quiet and all they’re doing is staring, as if they’re trying to read each other. Keith’s eyes are deep blue and piercing and they trap Lance’s and he finds it hard to look away. He wonders distractedly if he’s being mind-read or mind-controlled or something like that, like on TV. He thinks to himself that Keith would make a very good alien in disguise.

“Why were you in our yard?” Lance blurts, realizing as soon as he says it that that kinda sounds rude. He hopes dearly that Keith isn’t someone who takes everything personally.

But Keith looks unfazed and he looks past Lance and points to one of the trees in the yard Lance had thought would be good for climbing. “I like sittin’ in your trees.” He gestures subtly with the slingshot. “I try to catch birds.” There’s another pause. He’s staring out into Lance’s yard, not looking at him. His expression is closed but Lance thinks he sees unease there. It unsettles him. “No one’s lived in your house for a long time.”

Lance nods along, fingers idly playing in a patch of Scotch moss. The bugs suddenly seem to appear and they are deafening around him. “Ever catch any?” Keith looks over at him, confused. “Birds.” He clarifies.

Keith looks away again, digging a shallow hole in the dirt with the handle of his slingshot. It looks handmade, Lance realizes, with a sanded stick and soft leather and elastic bands. “Nah. Birds are fast.”

Lance nods, about to apologize for ripping the guy’s shirt, and then Gus is screaming, “LANCE!” and Lance can hear his hiccuping breaths and his pattering steps as he waddle-runs up to them. His face is sad and pouty when he pushes past the final bush into the little clearing him and Keith are sitting in. “Lance.” He repeats, avoiding Keith’s interested stare as he takes a seat inches from his big brother.

“This is Gus,” Lance supplies off-handedly. “who is too much of a baby to stay by himself for three frickin’ minutes.”

“I’m not!” Gus roars, shoving at Lance’s arm, but when he crosses his own arms, he burrows tightly against Lance’s side and Lance doesn’t miss the beginning of a smile tugging at the corner of Keith’s serious mouth. He decides that he and Keith are going to be friends, possibly for a very long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***warnings this chapter for verbal abuse from father to son, offensive language, and mild self harm***
> 
> take care, kiddies, and thanks so much for reading
> 
> also ps. i totally thought flowers could heal you as a child so that's where that comes from lol

June 30th, 1977

 

“Dad, these Cornflakes suck.” Gus protests, poking at the soggy cereal violently with his spoon. Lance’s not eating his either. David had said there’d been something of a pantry left with the house in the basement and these Cornflakes were a part of it. They’re ridiculously stale.

 

“Lance, eat your breakfast.” David barks, not looking up from where he’s trying to reattach a shelf to the wall. His screwdriver squeaks and they all cringe.

 

Lance looks up, ready to protest and correct his father that it was Gus who was complaining, but he knows it’s pointless. That was a lesson he’d learned a long time ago. So Lance shoves a big spoonful into his mouth and sure enough, moments later, Gus is doing the same. Lance quirks his nose around the dusty crap and forces himself to swallow. He sighs and looks around their new house. All their stuff is still in their bags so the house still looks like it’s empty. Lance just sorta feels like they’re squatting. They squatted for a while in Utah, once, when his Dad was hiding from a guy he cheated at a bar and the Corvair wasn’t working too great. Lance and Gus had found it exciting, but this just sort of feels weird. Like they’ve promised they’ll stay but they don’t really know how to.

 

Lance’s gaze flits around the room until he settles to looking out the wide window the dinner table’s butting up against. He squints through the early morning sun that makes everything bright and yellow. For the second day in a row, he scans the treeline for movement or shape, and for the first time, he sees it. A figure, tiny in the distance, sitting beside where Lance guesses the creek is. The land’s too flat to really be sure. But the fact that Keith is in his yard makes Lance buzz with energy and excitement. He hasn’t seen hide nor hair of the kid since their first strange encounter and honestly, Lance was just about prepared to accept that it was some weird daydream. Lance’s about to hiss at Gus to get his attention and point out Keith, but something flares in him and for the first time Lance feels… self-conscious, maybe, about bringing his brother everywhere with him. Gus is a baby, pretty well. What if Keith thinks that Lance is a loser for doing everything with his brother? Do the kids here only play with kids their own age? Is Lance being lame by bringing his brother along to see Keith? Lance can’t risk it. He wants to be friends with Keith. So he stays quiet, and he shoves the rest of his Cornflakes into his mouth, and he excuses himself quietly from the table and from Gus, rinsing the dishes off quickly in the sink after his father reminds him. Having a sink - it’s been a while. It makes Lance’s chest feel warm and thick.

 

The screen door slams and shudders loudly behind him. Gus’s plaintive cry behind him is ignored.

 

“Hey!” Lance calls, running towards Keith, who is indeed sitting only feet from the little river. “What’s up?” He slows a couple feet from where Keith is sitting and… picking flowers.

 

Keith just stares at him from his spot on the ground, and then Lance watches in confused horror as he picks a fluffy pink flower the size of a walnut off its stem, pulls little tubular petal-things off, and sucks on them before spitting them out, all the while maintaining aggressively intense eye contact. The dude is definitely weird. Lance can feel his face twist, nose quirked and eyes wide.

 

It’s silent for a moment, save the cicadas, and the sun is beating hot on the back of Lance’s neck.

 

“Uh… what’re ya doin’?” He tries for nonchalance and fails.

 

Keith narrows his eyes like Lance is the one eating flowers in the dirt. His head cocks to the side again. Lance notes that his hair is way more matted today than it was the day previous. 

 

“You don’t know what I’m doing?” Keith asks. Lance stays silent, shrugging a little. “You ever been outside?” His tone, though flat and emotionless, drips sarcasm.

 

“I kinda spent the last few years in a car.” is all Lance can think to say.

 

Keith huffs a little breath that Lance thinks may be a laugh. He picks another one and hands it to Lance, who takes it tentatively. “Red clover. Suck ‘em and they taste like honey.”

 

Lance plucks a little pink tube off the main plant and puts the tip on his tongue.

 

“Other end, wise guy.” Keith drawls.

 

Lance glares a little and turns it so the white part’s in his mouth instead and he gives an experimental little inhale. The flower shoots right back into his throat and Lance’s overcome by a sudden burst of coughing as Keith bursts into a cackling mess on the ground. Lance coughs and coughs, and Keith is reduced to giggling before he quits and just smiles up at Lance until he regains his breath and swallows the damn petal.

 

He’s wearing the widest shit-eating grin Lance’s ever seen, lips pulled taught to reveal his top teeth, the left front one still gone. Lance’d forgotten about that.

 

“Fuck off.” Lance growls, pride momentarily wounded, and he’s surprised and impressed when Keith neither balks, chides, or cows at his use of a bad word. He just plucks off another little petal-tube for Lance and holds the white end up to his lips. Lance takes it gingerly and holds it in his lips, forming them into a tiny ‘o’.

 

“Suck in. Keep your lips tight.”

 

Lance does and he’s pleasantly surprised by the sweetness that bursts across his tongue. He spits out the petal and smiles wide at Keith. Keith returns it and hands him his own new flower from the plant next to him.

 

“So what’re you doin’ today?”

 

Keith shrugs. “Suckin’ clover.”

 

“All day?” 

 

Keith shrugs again and Lance takes a seat beside him. He stares out over their relatively small property, and at the cloudless sky, and at the dragonflies landing inches from his bare toes. Keith doesn’t offer a response so Lance continues. “My Dad and Gus and I always had a plan for the day. Somewhere to be, someone to see… It never ended.”

 

“What does your Dad do?” He can feel Keith eyeing him.

 

Lance clears his throat and shifts a little. He scratches the back of his neck. God knows he can’t say he has no frickin’ idea. He’ll sound like a moron. “He’s a salesman.”

 

Keith stares at him for another couple seconds and Lance gets the distinct feeling that he doesn’t believe a word he’s saying, but Keith doesn’t push it. He follows Lance’s gaze to the horizon over the wheat field across the street from the little white house.

 

The soft puffing of Keith spitting out petals is the only sound, save birds and bugs. Lance can’t remember the last time he’s felt this quiet, inside and out. It’s kind of unnerving, really. Lance’s not sure he likes it.

 

“So where do you live?” He finally breaks the silence, making a bit of a show looking around for Keith’s house. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if Keith told him he lived in a treehouse or a hut in the woods somewhere, eating squirrels and drinking from Lance’s little creek. Keith is just strange enough, his clothes just dirty enough, his hair just matted enough.

 

But Keith just points to the right. “Two lots over. We’ve got ten acres front n’ back and then the back forty into the forest.” The words sound practiced, too old coming from Keith’s missing-tooth mouth. He wonders if stating how much land you have along with where you live is customary around here. He also wonders idly if Keith is older than Lance’s own eight years. He sure does talk like it. He looks like it too, like he’s seen things, like he knows things. It puts Lance on edge. Lance can’t think of ever meeting a kid who seemed more experienced than himself. He likes to think he’s been around the block a time or two. Keith is kind of… exciting.

 

When Lance doesn’t respond, too lost in thought, Keith takes it upon himself and asks Lance if he wants to go look. Lance shoots a long look back in the direction of his house, heart thumping at the idea of going somewhere without his father’s explicit permission, but Keith’s gaze is calm and wise and expectant, squinting through sunlight, and Lance can’t help but follow him along the forest’s edge.

 

Keith’s house, it turns out, is not much nicer than Lance’s. It’s similar - squat, low, one-story, but Keith’s has a wooden porch that wraps around the front to one side, and there are less weeds crawling up into the windows. The house is a warm shade of yellow that reminds Lance of Sun and fields. A stupidly old wooden barn sits crooked between the house and where Lance and Keith emerge from the forest and dilapidated fencing weaves along the flat and the couple low hills.

 

Keith swings an arm out dramatically as he ducks gracefully under the fence. Lance follows, less gracefully. “Welcome to Castle Kogane.” He deadpans, eyeing the house and land with mild interest.

 

“Cool barn.” Lance comments, nodding and feeling pretty damn awkward when Keith doesn’t move any closer to the house. He’s pretty sure that’s what’s supposed to happen in this situation, even if he’s never been over to a friend’s house before. “Are we… gonna go in?” Lance asks.

 

Keith quirks an eyebrow in a way that Lance’s quickly learning means he’s said something Keith thinks is dumb. “I have no plans to.” He says cooly.

 

“No plans to go into your own house?”

 

Keith shrugs and plucks another clover flower from its stem. He sucks on a couple petal-tubes before responding. “I usually spend my days outside.”

 

“Doing what?” Lance asks exasperatedly. He can feel that Keith is tense despite his relaxed behaviour, sensing it instinctually in the set of his shoulders, the curve of his mouth. Lance doesn’t understand.

 

Keith shrugs again. He does that an awful frickin’ lot, Lance thinks, but this time Keith raises his eyes to meet Lance’s and there’s mischief behind them and suddenly Lance’s heart is pounding in excitement and anticipation.

 

“You’ll see.”

 

 

July 3rd, 1977

 

The third time Lance meets Keith is at the end of the day, when David has already put Gus to bed in the twin bed across the room from Lance’s. The Sun is dying fiery and golden where the quiet road fades into the distance and David has left to ‘tie up a few ends’. Lance is sat in front of the TV, getting up to adjust the bunny ears every few minutes to try and stop the crackle. It’s not working very well.

 

Lance just about has a heart attack when he turns away from fixing the ears for the sixth time and sees Keith’s figure standing silhouetted in front of the screen door opening into the backyard.

 

“Shoot, Keith, you scared me!” He hisses, stomping over and angrily yanking the door open as quietly as possible for Gus’s sake.

 

Keith takes one tentative step forward, just enough so the door catches on his hip and doesn’t close again, and then he’s still, save his neck which cranes and stretches, taking in the bare walls, peeling paint, stained floor. Lance watches him, his fluffy dark hair, his sad, thoughtful eyes, the slight twitch of his nose when a gnat lands on it, the TV crackling, forgotten, five feet to their left, and he’s torn so his chest aches, because he’s so damn proud to have a house to call his own, and he’s ashamed at their lack of homeliness. No decorations, no personalization. It looks wrong. Unnatural. Strange. Lance knows. And he knows the house needs work, he knows, and he knows Keith’s house probably needs just as much, and that soothes him a little.

 

But Keith’s stare is so invasive, so intense, that Lance can only manage it for a couple minutes before the static and the crackling and Keith’s silence and the moths tapping at the glass is too much and he stomps forward and shuts the door behind Keith and a “Why are you here?” bursts from his mouth unwarranted.

Keith turns quietly to Lance and Lance is suddenly very aware of his own thumping heart and Keith looks like his heart is always slow and quiet. His lips are closed and tight in an expression Lance sees in Gussy sometimes. It’s defiance.

 

“I’ve come to teach you things.” Keith says proudly, contrasting bizarrely with his floppy, knotted black hair and dirt-smudged face.

 

Lance can feel his brow creasing. “What?”

 

“You grew up in a car.” His tone is somber but biting, a deadpan sort of sarcasm, and Lance clenches his teeth at it. What an ass.

 

“Not… not the whole time.” He starts, “And I mean I was kinda kidding, like-“

 

Lance is cut off. “No you weren’t.” Keith says brusquely. “I was thinking about you and about what you said-”

 

“How do you know?” Frustration wells up inside Lance, all the more when Keith’s face remains calm and defiant as ever. He’s so fricking confusing. He’s so fricking weird.

 

And then Keith says “I want to show you how to have fun.” And Lance gets quiet. He’s about to protest that he _knows_ how to have fun when Keith rewords it suddenly and says, “I want to show you how to have fun _here_.” 

 

… and all Lance can do is follow him out the door, after glancing back quickly towards Gus. He’ll be fine. He’ll be safe.

 

 

Lance, however, questions his own safety when he trails a couple feet behind Keith through their yard and then Keith climbs easily onto the fence separating their yard from the cow pasture beside them. The wood looks rotted and weak but Keith spares no time in pulling himself onto the highest slat of wood and slowly easing himself to stand, balancing on the inch-thick board of old pine. Lance’s eyes follow slowly from Keith’s bare toes curling around the splintering wood to where he’s haloed and shadowed by the setting Sun and pulls a shaky breath in as Keith gestures lightly for Lance to follow him. He manages to clamber up but wobbles terribly as soon as he tries to stand, so Lance quickly and securely sits.

 

Keith turns from his post to stare down at Lance. “Well aren’tcha gonna try again?”

 

Lance’s brows furrow, nose quirking. “Sorry if I don’t wanna fall and smash my skull in.”

 

Keith shakes his head and holds a hand out to Lance. “You won’t.”

 

And dammit, for some reason Lance believes him. So he grabs Keith’s hand, and pulls himself up, half expecting Keith to lose his balance and fall under Lance’s weight so Lance can tell him ‘I told you so’, but Keith is steady as a rock and before Lance realizes it he’s standing on top of the fence. He turns so he’s standing on just the balls of his feet, his heels stretching down to balance his weight and the wood soft and warm and splintery under him. 

 

He looks out over the pasture and towards the Sun that paints it all orange. The cows are becoming nothing but shapes against it and the fields beyond look like they’re being swallowed by the light. 

 

Lance thinks it’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, and he feels like he’s standing on top of the world. His chest feels warm and full. Keith stands silent beside him, their fingers still linked and becoming sweaty, and he looks over Lance’s face as he gawks at the display. The Sun is good to Lance, and turns his hair to look like its rays, and his eyes to look like summer skies, and his skin like fresh acorns, smooth and bright and even, save his freckles. Keith sort of wishes he had freckles like that, and he rubs self-consciously at the dirt he knows is on his nose.

 

“Come on,” Keith says eventually, hopping lightly down, and Lance has forgotten their fingers all twisted together and gets jerked roughly after him but manages to land half-on his feet, so his pride isn’t too wounded. He just glares at Keith a little who barely manages to cover a smirk before dropping Lance’s hand and walking deeper into the pasture.

 

They walk side-by-side and quiet until they’re about thirty feet from the cattle grazing peacefully on the sweetgrass and chamomile and Keith lies down, belly to the ground. Lance is learning to stop questioning Keith when he does things. He only ever seems to end up following him, anyway. So Lance also lies down, without a word, and follow’s Keith’s gaze to the cattle.

“They used to have a bull.” Keith whispers, and Lance stares at him, not understanding. Keith glances at him and takes the hint to continue. “But they got rid of ‘im.” Lance just keeps staring, brows furrowed, until Keith takes a deep breath, and slowly starts to stand up. “Which makes this _much_ safer.” His tone is still low and even and emotionless, but with his final syllable he stands fully and bolts towards the cattle, whooping loudly and senselessly at them.

 

 

Lance sees it happen as if in slow motion: the cows’ heads jerking up from the grass almost at the same time as Keith’s whoops shatter the silence of the country, the cows changing from standing still to running full-on milliseconds after Keith is, tossing their heads and giving little bucks and hops as they go, moving like a single unit, following a couple brown and cream cows in the front. They’re lowing deep and grunting and huffing and Lance swears he can feel the ground tremble beneath him, and then a _feeling_ pulls at his gut and a smile spreads wide over his face as he squints into the leftovers of the Sun and charges after Keith, the grass hot and crackling under his toes. He lets out a yell and his legs pump faster, faster, faster, and then he’s even with Keith and they lean into a turn to follow the path of the cows that are still charging and protesting and the exhilaration of it has Lance feeling like he’s flying. Keith glances over and sees Lance smile and it pulls a grin out of him so he lets out another animalistic cry, echoed by a howling Lance and they run faster, faster, after the cows and after the sunlight.

 

Until the lead cows turn sharp and they’re suddenly doubling back on themselves and Keith yells and starts running to the side and Lance stays dumb and still, staring at the half-ton animals coming at him until Keith shouts his name, “LANCE,” and grabs his arm and they dive into a tuft of chamomile and daisies, curling up together with arms over their heads. The ground thunders beneath them and hot breath slides across their backs and clumps of dirt stick to their clothes and their skin and a hoof skims Lance’s arm where Keith grabbed him moments before… And then the cows have passed. They slow to a trot and flick ears and tails at flies and their laboured breaths are all Lance and Keith can hear.

 

They’re still for a moment. The bugs and the nightbirds start up again and their hearts start slowing to normal rhythms. Keith is the first to uncurl and sit up.

 

“Darn.” He huffs, fisting handfuls of the weeds and sighing. “Fuckers.” He mutters, tossing a fistful of the stuff in the general direction of the cows.

 

Lance sits up now too, wincing slightly at the weight he puts on his right arm. 

 

“Dammit.” He whispers, turning to look at the wound. Just a scrape. Lance supposes he’s lucky the hoof didn’t catch him full-on, but it still stings like a bitch. It’s angry and red and about two inches long.

 

“Wha’ happened?” Keith drawls, crawling over until he can see it.

 

“Damn hoof got me.” Lance chirps, trying to press the sleeve of his t-shirt into it to stem the drops of blood on its surface, but it hurts it even more and Keith clucks his tongue.

 

“One second.” He mutters distractedly, and Lance watches, half amused, half confused, as Keith stands and starts walking around the field, head bent towards the ground and muttering at the plants.

 

Lance lets him wander around for a few minutes before he can’t help himself anymore. “So, uh… watcha lookin’ for there?” He stifles a giggle as Keith shuffles around, mumbling softy, looking half-crazy.

 

“Agrimony.” Keith says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

 

“Why?”

 

“You got a scrape.”

 

Keith’s tone doesn’t leave room for argument, so Lance shuts up and watches Keith wander in the last remnants of the Sun, letting his eyes drift close and the heat of the earth soak into him until the sound of Keith ripping a hunk off a plant cuts through the thick evening air.

 

“Found it.” He drawls, jogging over and picking a little yellow flower off the stem and squishing it thoroughly before rubbing it into Lance’s wound.

 

“Hey!” Lance protests, reddening when his voice cracks a little. “Ow!”

 

Keith rolls his eyes but doesn’t stop rubbing the flowers into the hurt. “Stop being a baby.”

 

So Lance shuts up and ignores the sting and watches Keith do his work, brows furrowed and focused, jaw tight, and ignores the initial thought that Keith is an absolute wacko, thinking rubbing flowers on things helps, because Keith looks so earnest, and so certain, that Lance can’t help but want to believe in flowers healing wounds too. Lance watches in silence until Keith is satisfied with the smudgy yellow peppering the scrape and he smashes some chamomile flowers in there for good measure.

 

“There.” Keith states, happy with his handiwork. “You’ll be okay, Lance.” His tone is serious as ever, and Lance is powerless against the smile that spreads across his face.

 

“Thanks, doc. Glad to hear it.”

 

They sit quietly in the grass for a while, and cowtails swish through the air and the grass crackles when they shift and it starts smelling like night. Peace has returned to the country.

 

Keith stands and Lance follows, and they start walking lazily back to the fence. They duck under this time instead of standing on top of it. Lance doesn’t think it would be the same anyway without the Sun setting fiery and blazing in front of them.

 

Without warning Keith bounds off to Lance’s right, towards the forest, and Lance watches him for a moment, wondering if he should follow, but then Keith jumps a little, hands reaching in front of him, and he stops and walks back to Lance.

 

He stands close to Lance, so Lance can smell the wind on his skin and the grass on his clothes, and holds cupped hands up to their faces. He opens them an inch and Lance grins when a firefly lights up the little room Keith has created. Keith opens his hands completely and the firefly flies away, lighting his own path with eerie yellow-green light. Keith and Lance stand still and watch him bounce around until he settles in the grass.

 

Lance turns to look at his house, now only forty feet or so away. Then he turns to Keith.

 

“That was fun.” He starts awkwardly.

 

Then Keith feels awkward too and he rubs at his nose and then looks over his shoulder at the forest and around at the fields a few times, his arms hanging limp at his sides, and he’s quiet until Lance wants to say something else and then finally, “Yeah.”

 

“Well… bye.” Lance gives a nerdy little wave that makes him want to smack himself and Keith just nods.

 

“‘Night.”

 

And with that he turns away from Lance and walks towards the forest. Everything is blue and quiet and Lance just watches him leave for a while before he takes a deep breath and turns to walk towards his own house.

 

“Weird.” He mutters softly, but he finds himself smiling.

 

 

Lance opens the door to his father pacing in front of the front door.

 

He freezes. He knows this isn’t good. Fear and dread run cold through his veins and he cringes, muscles tightening on instinct.

 

His father’s head whips over to face him and Lance flinches.

 

“Lance.” His tone is low and dangerous and Lance can smell the booze on him from here. No, this is not good.

 

“Hey, Dad.” Lance is ashamed at how small he sounds. Nothing more than a mouse. A bug.

 

“Where were you?” His father’s voice booms through the house, Lance imagines it shaking the walls.

 

“My friend-“

 

“Friend.”

 

“Yeah, he lives two lots over at the yellow house, his name is Keith, he’s really ni-“ Lance doesn’t get to finish.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing running around with random hick kids in the middle of the night, leaving your baby brother home alone and defenceless? Are you stupid? Do you _want_ something to happen to him?”

 

“What?” Lance balks, and he can feel tears hot and angry, ready to fall. “Dad, no! No! I just-“

 

David swings in low and close to Lance and Lance cowers, his heart thumping wildly. “You what? You thought it was a good idea to go running off in the middle of the fucking night leaving your sleeping brother alone in an unlocked house? Are you _stupid_? Are you _retarded_? Huh, Lance?”

 

“Dad-“ Lance’s voice is small and he turns his face away from the smell of alcohol coming off his father.

 

“Bed.”

 

Anger and shame well up inside Lance but he knows it’s useless and pointless and stupid and he’s so goddamn stupid he’s so stupid so stupid so stupid.

 

So Lance turns away from David, eyes lowered and submissive, and walks into his and Gus’s room, jaw clenched to keep from crying, and he shuts the door softly and crawls into bed, dirty clothes and all.

 

He snuffles into his pillow and a few tears fall before he can check them. Boy’s don’t cry. Men don’t cry. He pinches the skin of his wrist hard enough he has to clench his teeth to stop from making any sound that might wake Gus.

 

It’s useless though because Lance hears Gus sit up in bed.

 

“You okay?” He whispers, voice rough with sleep.

 

“Yeah.” Lance says.

 

“Where’d you go?”

 

“I was playing with Keith.”

 

“Oh.” Gus is silent for a moment. “I like him.”

 

Lance nods and grunts something in the affirmative and can hear Gus lie back down. Lance closes his eyes and rubs his nose into his pillow, inhaling hard enough he imagines he can still smell the night air, the earth churned up by stampeding cow’s hooves, the crushed agrimony, and he dreams of Keith and sunlight and fireflies.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short and sweet one :)
> 
> ***chapter warning for mild racism***
> 
> thanks so much for reading, guys! Comments and kudos are always appreciated <33

July 4th, 1977

 

The next day is one of the hottest days Lance has ever felt in all his eight years. He opens his eyes to the sun streaming through the dusty window and groans a little. He’s covered in cooling sweat. His whole bed feels damp. Blinking, he sees that Gus’s bed is already empty and slowly the sounds of early morning cartoons drift to the forefront of his mind.

 

He gets up and changes out of the dirt- and grass-stained clothes of last night and into a t-shirt and shorts. Lance wipes at the sweat beading on his forehead and under his arms. Gross.

 

He pads out into the hall in sticky bare feet and David is digging through one of the duffels which has yet to be unpacked. He pulls a can of instant coffee out of it and stands, rubbing a hand roughly over his face before moving to the kitchen. He doesn’t look good.

 

“Mornin’ Gussy. Mornin’ Dad.” Lance keeps his eyes low and gets two bowls out of the cupboard and the Cornflakes and milk.

 

“Lance,” His father greets him, clearing his throat and closing his eyes tiredly as his coffee cools.

 

Lance finishes making his and Gus’s breakfasts and starts carrying them over to the TV where Gus’s sitting on the floor when David starts again through a sighing breath.

 

“You shouldn’t have left your brother last night.” He sounds tired. He sounds old. Lance feels too hot.

 

“I know.” His voice is small. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I know you’re sorry.” But there’s no bark in David’s voice. “Who were you with?” Lance is not surprised David doesn’t remember Lance mentioning Keith last night. His dad forgets lots of things when he smells like alcohol.

 

“Keith.” Lance repeats, pauses, but surprisingly, David waits for him to continue. “He lives three doors down. He’s nice.”

 

David’s quiet for a moment. “How’d you meet Keith?”

 

“He used to come into our yard to climb the trees, when the house was still empty, and I saw him and starting talking to ‘im.”

 

David seems to think for a minute, brow furrowed as he sips his coffee. Lance can see sweat trickling down his temple. They need a fan or something. “He from a good family?”

 

Lance winces and shrugs. From his clothes and hair and general messiness Keith would guess not, but then again sometimes him and Gus have to wear old, ripped clothes and don’t bathe for a while, and Lance’s pretty sure he, his dad, and Gus are a good family, so Lance just says he isn’t sure.

 

“I just don’t want you hanging around with some squirrel-eating hick kid from a redneck family, you hear? If you meet his family and they don’t seem like right decent people, you are not going to see him again. Clear?”

 

“Yessir.” Lance nods sharply, his stomach dropping, and moves into the living room to sit down beside Gus and eat their soggy old cereal.

 

……….

 

 

“Can we go see the fireworks pleeeeaaaassse?” Gus whines, bouncing up and down a little with his little fists clutched tight to his chest. “Pleeeeaaaase?”

 

David chuckles a little and ruffles Gus’s hair from his seat on an old wicker chair on their rotting porch. The Sun’s just starting to set over the fields down the road and the Corvair and David’s tool kit are shining yellow and orange in its dying rays. David takes a long pull from his bottle. “We’re not that far from town, Gussy. We’ll be able to see ‘em from here.”

 

“Daaaaaaadd” Gus whines but Lance reaches over and jabs him with his elbow and Gus glares at him and sticks out his tongue but shuts up.

 

“It’ll be fun, Gus,” Lance consoles, pulling apart a dandelion leaf. “We can watch ‘em right here from our own home.”

 

Gus grins a little at the mention of ‘home’ and softly concedes.

 

The three of them sit quietly, David on the sagging porch and Gus and Lance on the burnt grass making up the front lawn, ripping up handfuls of it and poking at bugs. They sweat in the heat of the Sun and the cicadas are deafening, as if their sound is heat incarnate. A soft, hot breeze catches their clothes and pulls at their hair and they breathe it in. An old green truck rattles by, a few square bales stuffed in its bed, and Lance squints through the glare at the shaggy-looking middle-aged man driving it. He can make out a kid’s silhouette in the passenger seat. Lance watches it drive down the road and it turns into a driveway after only a few seconds. Lance wonders whether it turned into Keith’s drive, whether that was Keith and his father. His dad looks tired, if it is.

 

Silence, save the cicadas, returns to the area after the engine of the truck sputters to a stop and Lance stands.

 

“Dad, can Gus and I walk around a little until the fireworks start?”

 

Gus stumbles to a stand and David takes a deep, resolved breath. His bottle sweats just like his brow. “You be back here on this lawn before the Sun’s fully set. Clear?”

 

“Yessir.” Lance nods, a smiling pulling at his cheeks. “You comin’ Gussy?”

 

“Yeah.” Gus bounces up and down and swipes at the sweat on his face and Lance jogs around side of the house.

 

He finds himself concentrating on the treeline at the back of the yard, looking for Keith, as has become near-instinctual, but the yard is empty. Lance picks up a skipping sort of run and calls for Gus to keep up, but all Lance hears is a thump. He swings around in a millisecond, heart suddenly thundering and mind in panic mode, and Gus is lying motionless in the grass.

 

“Gus!” Lance calls, sprinting over and kneeling beside him.

 

 

But Gus is breathing and his eyelids are fluttering and his bottom lip is pouted. “Too hot.” He whines.

 

Lance sighs and smacks Gus on the shoulder. “Don’t scare me like that, you turd.”

 

Gus opens his eyes and looks up at Lance, making his best puppy face. “But it really is hot, Lance! Too hot! I’m gonna die!”

 

“Then don’t lie in the sun. You’ll start to stink.”

 

Gus just huffs air at Lance and rolls over a few times until he’s lying in the shade at the side of the house.

 

“So what, you’re not comin’ with me anymore?”

 

Gus makes a vaguely negative noise and Lance just sighs and continues walking towards the back of the lot.

 

It is really hot. Gus’s right. But Lance wants to see Keith, badly. All day he’s found himself itching for the strange talk and strange staring, itching to learn more fun and potentially dangerous things to do in the country with a couple of cows and old fencing. Keith is fun and Keith is mysterious and Keith is thrilling in ways Lance’s never encountered before and it’s addicting.

 

He skips over to where the burnt grass turns into forest and takes the little invisible path Keith showed him when he took Lance to his house a few days previous. Lance feels intrusive as he skirts the property of the lot between his and Keith’s houses, running his hands along fine wheat before Keith’s barren yard comes into view. Lance checks behind him and sure enough the Sun is getting very low in the sky. He doesn’t have much time, so he sucks in a fortifying breath, gathers his courage, and runs through the fields that make up the farthest parts of Keith’s property until he’s even with the old barn, and a flickering light catches his eye. He stops dead and takes a few more steps until he can see the far side of the barn. Sure enough, there are two figures, one tall, one short, crouching to start a fire in a pit. Lance is suddenly overcome with self-consciousness. What the hell was he thinking? He’s actually trespassing in someone’s yard, clearly interrupting something, and they don’t know him and he doesn’t know them and what if they call the cops? What on earth will his Dad say if they call the cops? And Lance’s breath is coming so fast and he’s looking all around him for the most discreet escape route until his name rings out over the fields.

 

“Lance!” It’s faint, and Lance’s head whips over to the people at the barn. They’re stopped and looking at him. “LANCE!” Lance squints and can see the little figure waving at him. It’s too dark in the light but Lance recognizes the gritty voice as Keith’s and he waves hesitantly back and jogs towards him.

 

“Hey, Keith.” He says once he’s close enough not to have to yell.

 

“Hey, Lance.” Keith is staring at him, as well as the middle-aged man who was driving the old green truck.

 

Lance takes a moment to steel himself before peeking up to meet the older man’s steely pale-eyed gaze.

 

Keith takes a couple steps forward, and he’s staring hard at Lance and Lance gets the feeling Keith is trying to tell him something with his eyes but he’s really not picking it up and then Keith turns to look at the man. “This is my uncle Jed.” A pregnant pause. Then Keith continues, softer. “… say hello to uncle Jed, Lance.”

 

Jed catches Lance’s eyes again. Lance doesn’t realize he shrinks back, shoulders curling up and in, head lowering. Lance does realize that Keith is not living with even one parent.

 

Lance gulps and he can feel himself starting to blush and his toe digs a little hole in the dirt. “Hi…” He stutters thickly as Keith’s uncle strides forward.

 

“Nice to meet you, Lance.” His tone is bland, voice gravelly, but his hand is outstretched, large and square and roughened with years of work. Lance shakes it, and feels so small. “We’re just setting up a bonfire if you and your family want to join us. I’m assuming you moved into Dan Dell’s house.”

 

Lance nods and shrugs a little. “I guess.”

 

“Why don’t you go ask your parents if they wanna come over?”

 

And Lance doesn’t even think to correct the man that he only has a Dad now, he only nods furiously and shoots a look at Keith who’s standing silent and grim a few feet back, and then he turns on his heels and books it through the cooling evening back to his house.

 

 

Lance doesn’t think or even breathe really until he’s back in their own yard, puffing and sucking in the hot air, taking a minute to catch his breath before talking as his Father and Gus stare at him with bewildered looks.

 

“Keith’s family is having a bonfire and they asked us to come.” He blurts.

 

David is shaking his head before Lance is even done. “Lancito, I-“

 

And for the first time, Lance interrupts him. “Dad, please.”

 

And for the first time, after staring at him good and hard, Lance forcing himself to maintain the eye contact, David allows it. He sighs and looks at the grass and takes a pull on his bottle before standing up and gesturing to Gus. “Fine, Lance. Let’s go meet the neighbours.”

 

Lance’s heart feels fit to burst and he can’t help but bounce and jump and grin stupidly up at his dad as he follows him down the road to Keith’s house.

 

Lance leads them around the sagging yellow house through a maze of bikes and baseball bats and wheelbarrows and yard equipment, around a tractor and a tiller and a couple old lawnmowers, and into the vast backyard of the Koganes. Keith sees them first from a distance and jogs over to Jed, pulling on his shirt to alert him of the McClains’ presence. Jed strides easily over and greets them, shaking David’s hand firmly, nodding to Lance, and waving a little at Gus who cows and hides behind David’s leg.

 

“So you’re… out of towners.…” Jed starts, stepping back to look the three of them over, hands in his pockets. Lance personally feels a bit like a piece of meat. “I mean, s’not a bad thing, per say, just… you know.”

 

“We’re from Cuba, originally.” David supplies cooly, mirroring Jed’s forced relaxed posture.”

 

“And come here to… take a farm job?”

 

Lance easily reads the tension in his father’s tone. It makes his muscles seize. “I’m self-employed, actually. Just needed a house. We’re still checking the town out. Seems a little too… ‘rough-around-the-edges’ so far, doesn’t it, boys?” David pats them on the backs, too hard. Gus stumbles forward a bit, suffers under David’s sharp glare.

 

Lance watches, jaw clenched, as uncle Jed chews a piece of sweet grass like cud, bottom lip hanging to show off dip-yellowed teeth. His icy eyes look dead. Lance forces his gaze to move to Keith, instead, who’s standing a few feet behind Jed, looking how Lance feels. But when their eyes meet, they soften.

 

It’s Jed who mercifully breaks the tension. “Well, in any case, today’s July 4th. A day for celebration and little else. Come on, neighbour, have a sit.” Jed turns, gesturing to the bales of hay set up around the fire blazing in a pit of stones. 

 

They all walk towards the barn awkwardly, Sun having set enough to allow the fire to be the main source of light, and Lance can’t help but glance worriedly at David every few seconds, wondering whether he approves of Keith’s family or not, whether he approves of Keith, but his face and that little confrontation are not boding well. Lance actually thinks David’s eyes are lingering longer on Keith, who’s staring intensely and somewhat aggressively at David, but that’s just Keith, Lance thinks.

 

David sits beside Jed on a log and Lance makes sure to scoot in and share a bale with Keith, making Gus whine and pout until he sucks it up and takes the bale beside them, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

 

Lance breathes the new night air and the bonfire’s smoke in deep and pulls his attention away from where David and Jed are talking, faces lit orange and severe in the firelight.

 

“Well what do you think?” Keith asks, and Lance jolts a little. Keith can be so quiet sometimes Lance forgets he can talk.

 

“Of what?” Lance mumbles, looking into the fire rather than at Keith himself.

 

“Jed.” Keith’s tone is somber and dull as ever but for some reason Lance can hear the guardedness, the unease behind it. The sense in him that drives him to protect and care for Gus flares up and Lance is forced to look at Keith, the need to comfort and console him pulling at his gut strong.

 

“He’s fine, Keith. Seems a lot like my dad, actually. Nothing wrong with that.” His tone is earnest and soft.

 

And Keith seems to deflate like a balloon and Lance knows he’s said the right thing. He can feel the tension ease out of Keith’s shoulders inches away from him. It makes Lance feel lighter.

 

“You want marshmallows?” Keith husks.

 

“Nah.”

 

“How’s your scrape?”

 

Lance rucks up his sleeve to show Keith. “It’s all scabby now. Feels fine.” He catches Keith’s eyes and grins. “Guess your flowers did the trick, then, huh?”

 

Keith squirms ever so slightly and blushes happily and Lance giggles and Keith grins. They both breathe and sit quiet for a minute. 

 

Lance looks to Jed again. He has the same aura his dad has sometimes when Lance does something wrong. Like Lance has to tread carefully around him, keep his head down, only speak when spoken to. Lance quickly stares at the ground, afraid to catch his eye. His head whips over towards Keith when Keith huffs a breath that Lance is pretty sure means he’s laughing at him. Keith’s mouth softens to a lopsided grin.

 

“You wanna see something cool?” Keith asks.

 

Lance smiles and he side-eyes Keith. “What’d ya have in mind?”

 

“Uncle Jed,” Keith chirps, his tone clearer than Lance has ever heard it and his back straightening. His uncle looks at him, all tired and sagging and yellowed by the fire like their house. “Can I go show Lance the cars?”

 

Jed stares at the two for a minute before he nods, mumbling something vaguely positive, and then looks to David. Lance wonders if Jed can feel the fierce leadership David often radiates just like he can.

 

David seems to stare at Jed for a while before his eyes flicker to Lance’s and he nods solemnly.

 

Keith stands and Lance follows and they run only about thirty feet around the side of the barn and Lance gapes at the collection of three or four rusted-out classic junkers sitting in the dead grass against the barn. They’re similar ages or older than his dad’s classic car, and he makes a note to mention them to his dad tomorrow morning. He can’t make out their colours anymore, the night getting too thick, but Keith doesn’t dwell on them like Lance wants to. He doesn’t even look at them, really; he just keeps on walking until he’s at the cars, and then he’s climbing, one foot on the back tire, hands on the roof, and he pulls himself up. The roof of the car dips a little under his weight but he seems unfazed.

 

“Come on, Lance.” He holds one small, dirty hand out.

 

So Lance clambers up onto the one farthest from the barn wall with Keith, and turns to face west, towards town, just like him.

 

Keith doesn’t talk so Lance doesn’t either. Keith seems thoughtful, Lance thinks, and he thinks he should let him think all his thoughts without interrupting him, so Lance just looks up at the Milky Way spreading thick and bright above them, and at the shadows and shapes cast by the fire’s glow, and at the fireflies bouncing senselessly over the fields, and sometimes at Keith, until the fireworks start. 

 

Lance can make out Gus’s squeals behind him as the boom reaches them a couple seconds after the lights burst across the sky, spinning and flaring and roaring red, white, and blue. A smile is pulled out of him and his heart feels like it’s bumping against the back of his throat.

 

Keith grins a little and glances over at Lance, and at the way the fireworks and the shadows of the evening sort of fight over his face, turning him red and blue and black and purple and his eyes and teeth shine. Keith shifts happily on the metal roof and turns back to look at the display.

 

“Happy Fourth of July, Lance.” He says softly. He doesn’t think Lance hears him until he bumps him gently with his shoulder, and then Lance catches his eye and they both giggle a little bit for no real reason. Keith thinks it feels very good.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sweet and happy things <3
> 
> i loved collecting berries as a kid
> 
> thanks for reading, everyone. kudos and comments are always loved, and I appreciate you all :*)

July 13th, 1977

 

Lance is surprised one morning by a knock on the door. It’s their first knock on the door of their new home and both Lance and Gus race to answer it first.

 

It’s actually Gus who reaches it first, but not because he’s faster, Lance consoles himself, it’s because Gus ducked in front of him and Lance had to skid to a stop to avoid trampling him.

So Gus yanks it open and chirps a friendly greeting to Keith, who’s standing as disheveled and wind-blown as ever on their warped wooden porch.

 

“Mornin’ Keith,” Gus says.

 

 

“Mornin’.” Lance echoes, poking his head around the side of the door and grinning at him. Keith offers a small smile and a nod in return. “You’ve finally found our front door.” Lance teases, and Keith’s nose quirks in distaste, if only from trying to stop a smirk.

 

 

“Boys?” David yells from the bathroom, tapping his razor firmly against the sink. “Who is it?”

 

“It’s Keith, Dad!” Lance yells back, suddenly looking nervously between the still-empty hallway and his friend. He’s still not sure what David thinks of him, not sure if he approves, and Lance’s been thinking near-nonstop what to do if it turns out David doesn’t like Keith. Lance has never done something his Father didn’t want before. Frankly, the thought terrifies him.

 

But his Father just grunts a little as a response so Lance tries to put him out of his mind and turns to Keith again.

 

“Whatcha doin’ today, Keith?” Lance asks, rocking back on his heels in feigned nonchalance.

 

Keith shrugs a little, as is customary, it seems. “Just walkin’ around the forest for now.”

 

Lance nods, opening his mouth to ask to join him when David lumbers out of the hallway and fills the rest of the doorway behind Gus and Lance. “How are you, Keith?” He asks, but his tone is flat and his face is unreadable and Keith only glances at him briefly before his eyes flicker down and he’s scuffing at the painted wood with a bare toe.

 

“Good, sir.” He answers, voice hard and crisp, lacking the drawl and ease it carries when he’s talking to Lance. It makes Lance wonder if Keith’s uncle gets the same as Lance’s dad does sometimes, rough and brash and scary.

 

“You wanna head out with Lance, I’m guessing?” David’s tone holds some danger in it, some testiness, and Lance knows Keith picks up on it because his back is subtly straighter and his eyes still train down.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

David grunts a little before taking his eyes off Keith and ruffling Gus’s shaggy head of hair. “That’s okay, Gussy. You ’n me’ll go into town. Stock up a bit. Alright?”

 

And Gus nods and smiles up at him and David nods to Keith and then to Lance, and then he turns and heads back inside.

 

Lance can see Keith deflate and he doesn’t notice his own muscles slackening at the lack of David’s presence. He just grins at Keith, who returns it.

 

“Ready to go?” Lance chirps, pushing through Keith and closing the door behind him after yelling a quick, “Be back before lunch!” over his shoulder.

 

The two skip over the pokey yellow grass of the front yard and around the side yard and then Keith side-eyes Lance, which Lance reads correctly as a challenge. They both take off, milliseconds away from perfect unison, across the barren field towards the forest. Keith pulls easily ahead of Lance and giggles when Lance grunts and forces himself faster, faster, faster, til they’re abreast. Lance glances over at Keith and watches him for a minute, their arms pumping and Keith’s cheeks stretched into a smile and he looks so free, so open, that Lance barely recognizes him from the quiet, guarded kid he met only a little while ago. Lance finds himself smiling too, until Keith catches him looking at him and sticks his tongue out at him, and then he ratchets the speed up a notch and pulls a couple feet ahead, and Lance swears they’re flying.

 

“Keith, you ass-“ Lance’s cut off when his foot catches in a rabbit hole and his breath lets out of his lungs in a solid ‘oof’, and he’s rolling and tumbling across the grass and weeds.

 

Keith slows fractionally to turn and look at Lance sprawled on the ground. He barks a laugh and slows to a stop, hands on hips, staring Lance down as he mutters angrily and spits out bits of grass and dirt.

 

“You _asshole_.” He growls, brow furrowed and mouth pouting.

 

“Aw, Lance, don’t be such a sore loser.” Keith says through a half-grin. “Anyhow, it’s not _your_ fault ya can’t run for shit.”

 

And at that Lance snarls and get ups and charges right for Keith, who shrieks in surprise and delight and turns and bolts for the trees.

 

“You take that back!” Lance yells, arms pumping wildly until he’s even with Keith again.

 

“NO!” Keith yells, and then they’re in the trees, hopping over bushes and branches and holes, ducking under low boughs, swerving around crooked trunks, and then Keith is slowing down so Lance does too.

 

“I hate you.” Lance huffs with a sour face, turning so he’s facing Keith who’s still grinning smugly.

 

Keith breathes deep to catch his breath and rubs a little at his cheeks. He can’t remember the last time he’s smiled so much his cheeks hurt. It makes his chest feel warm and his steps feel light. 

 

“No you don’t.” He mutters, turning away from Lance’s stink eye and towards a path Lance doesn’t see.

 

“Yeah I do.” Lance insists weakly, pressing at a stitch in his side.

 

“Shut up and look for berries.” Keith dismisses Lance, turning his attention away from the high branches and deep into the spiny bushes they’re starting to push through.

 

“Berries?” Lance echoes, stink eye and hatred immediately forgotten.

 

“Yeah. Blackcap season’s just starting.”

 

“Like in the forest?”

 

Keith stops and turns to Lance whose eyes are wide and jaw is loose. “Yes, Lance. In the forest.” Lance doesn’t say anything - he still looks ridiculously surprised so Keith huffs a sigh. “Blackcap bushes. See?” And Keith turns and reaches carefully into a bush beside them and he pulls a few fat blackcaps off a stem. He offers them to Lance whose slack mouth turns into a smile so broad, Keith can see all his straight, white teeth. Keith tongues at the hole where he’s still missing one.

 

“You’ve never picked berries before?” He asks, surprised.

 

Lance shakes his head and stuffs them into his mouth. They stain his fingers and his lips purple and his smile grows impossibly wider. He talks through a high-pitched laugh, hands curling up against his chest, making fists with excitement. “Holy heck, Keith, these are _so good,_ can you imagine a PIE made out of these?!” And Lance jumps up a down a little, eyes scanning the bushes hungrily for more.

 

Keith barks a surprised laugh and grins at Lance. “We could smash some up and try it, I guess. I’ve never made a pie before, though.”

 

Lance shrugs and stuffs his hands in the bush but yelps and pulls away in a millisecond. “Ow!”

 

“They have pricklies.” Keith says with little to no inflection, but he has to try hard to suppress a smile when Lance turns to glare at him.

 

“So I’ve found.” Lance snarks.

 

They fall into a companionable silence after that, save for Keith leaning over and giving Lance the occasional tip: “Pick the blackest ones. Leave the red and purple ones for another day.” “Check for ants. Sometimes they get covered in ‘em.” “Check under the leaves for hiding ones.” And they soon have to take off their shirts and use them, staining them awfully, as makeshift baskets to hold all the berries.

 

Lance follows Keith over a path that’s invisible to him, and they look up at the trees to try to see the birds that are screeching at each other and they blow at mosquitos that hover over their arms and faces and they step delicately over big rocks and fallen logs. Lance squints when they break through the trees at the sun that’s glaring at them over a field. He instinctively breathes deep the smell of the wind over the wheat and Keith looks over and smiles at him. He’s learning. Keith moves over to a large oak that borders the field and ties ends of his shirt together and slings it over his arm, and then he’s climbing, toes finding holds in small nooks and twists of bark, fingers reaching for branch after branch until it’s hard to go any higher.

 

Lance stares up at him from the ground, the wind playing in his hair, until he takes a deep breath and follows Keith’s lead. Keith is unconsciously pleased. Lance is slow to climb the tree, and Keith mutters soft encouragements to him: “Come on, Lance. Now this branch here. Foot in that little hole - left. Left. Good. One more.” And then Keith blushes a little, because he can’t remember ever doing this before, ever talking this much, ever _wanting_ to talk this much, really, and he wonders what’s happening to him, what Lance is doing to him, because his own voice is soft rather than rough, and his demeanour is patient rather than standoffish. It scares him a little. It’s strange. But heck if it doesn’t feel good.

 

And then Lance is sat beside Keith in the oak, his muscles tense and his breath quick.

 

“We’re pretty high up.” Lance says breathlessly, fingers gripping the bark near-painfully.

 

“It’s okay. You won’t fall.”

 

A sharp bark of laughter leaves Lance. “How do you know?” His voice cracks and he swallows and blushes.

 

“Because there’s lots of branches here for you to hold, and you have good balance, and I’d grab your arm or something if you slipped.”

 

And dammit, Lance believes him, because his eyes are steady and wide and his breath is even and soft, and so Lance furrows his brow and nods and settles into the V between two main limbs.

 

Keith is sat precariously farther out out a limb so he’s facing Lance, who’s much closer to the heart of the tree, and they both untie the ends of their stained, stretched shirts to reveal the juicy, squished mess that is their berries. Lance breaks out into a brilliant smile which makes Keith’s heart flutter and then they’re shoving fistfuls of the mush into their mouths and soon they’re stained purple everywhere and the Sun is hot and the birds sing sweetly and both Lance and Keith’s hearts swell with contentment.

 

Keith is the first to speak, his fingers slowing to play with the berries rather than devouring them, and his eyes train downwards. Lance stills, can feel the shift in energy between them, and he stares at Keith.

 

“What’s up?”

 

Keith chews on his lip and doesn’t meet Lance’s eyes and his fingers fiddle and his toes curl and uncurl and it makes Lance’s chest feel tense and hot and he doesn’t like it.

 

“Keith?”

 

He can hear Keith swallow, and his eyes finally flicker up to meet Lance’s, and then he breathes deep and he speaks. 

 

“Lance…” His pause is pregnant and all Lance can do is stare earnestly at him. “Are we… friends?”

 

And then Lance laughs, head thrown back and eyes closed, before leaning forward again and grinning broadly at Keith. “Sure we are!” Keith’s eyes, puppy-dog wide and dark and open, stare cautiously at Lance, and his fingers still play nervously at his shorts. Lance snorts gently. “Gee, Keith, I’m kinda ‘ffended. What did you think we are?” Because the urge Lance feels to comfort Keith, to assure him that they’re good, pulls strong and urgent at his gut.

 

Keith just shrugs a little but one side of his mouth is quirking up into a grin and it makes Lance warm. Lance wipes his hands on his shorts and finishes off the last of his berries.

 

“So are there lots of kids around here?” He asks through the mouthful.

 

“In Sparrow’s Plains?”

 

“Yeah. Like around our houses.”

 

Keith shrugs again and seems content once more, eating his berries one by one, fingers picking at them delicately. “Not really. There’s more kids in town.” He pauses to think, mouth quirking and eyes searching the air. “There’s the Treasure family a few minutes away; the kid’s named Ben. They raise pigs. We don’t see ‘em much… And there’s the Elroy family down the road. They got a daughter, my age. Jessie. They own the bar.”

 

Lance grimaces a little. “My dad’s probably met ‘em, then.”

 

Keith’s stare is even and solemn and wise. “He drink?”

 

Lance nods, and once he meets Keith’s eyes he can’t pull away.

 

“Jed, too.” Keith concludes, and it seems precious and delicate and important, this small piece of sensitive information that joins the boys. “I’m never gonna drink like that.” It’s near a whisper.

 

Lance shakes his head. “Me either.” And the silence is heavy and thick and he needs to say something else. Something to break the tension. “So how old _are_ you?” he asks quickly, hoping to lighten the mood. Delicate topics like that make him uncomfortable, make him squirm and feel hot.

 

“Eight.” Keith replies. “You?”

 

“Eight.” Lance says, nodding. “We’re gonna be in the same class, then, come September.”

 

“Yes.” Keith slips his shirt back on, disinterestedly examining the purple juice smeared all over the baggy, holey thing. “But that’s a long ways off, Lance.” And with no further words, Keith drops out of the tree.

 

A yell is torn from Lance’s throat and he leaps forward, accidentally dropping his shirt onto the ground, but when he leans around the branch, Keith is standing at the base of the tree, hands on hips, the ghost of a smile pulling at his features.

 

“You _loser_.” Lance hisses, eyes narrowed, embarrassment warming his cheeks.

 

Keith huffs a laugh and turns away, walking along the narrow grass strip dividing the thick forest from the wheat field. “Come on, Lance.” He chirps over his shoulder.

 

Lance scowls to himself and manages to shimmy down the trunk of the tree, scraping his ribs a little in the process, but he just presses on the wounds, grunts a little in frustration, puts his shirt back on, and runs after Keith. He spots a patch of clover on the side of the path and picks a couple flowers, forgetting his anger at Keith in a second. Lance isn’t very good at holding grudges.

 

“Here,” He says, somewhat breathlessly, when he reaches Keith, and Keith raises a self-righteous eyebrow at Lance but takes the flower.

 

Lance sneers at him a little in response to the self-righteous eyebrow, but ignores Keith’s penetrative gaze and picks a few petals off and puts them on his tongue, just as Keith taught him to. But these are not the same. Bitter flavour coats Lance’s tongue and he coughs and hisses and spits them violently out just as Keith bursts into asshole laughter, hands clutching at his stomach and head thrown back.

 

“AW. KEITH-“ Lance shouts angrily, spitting repeatedly on the ground to try to get the taste out of his mouth, even going so far as to try to wipe his tongue off with his filthy shirt, scraping at his tastebuds with his nails. “WHAT THE HELL, KEITH.”

 

Keith just keeps laughing. “What? It’s not my fault you just ate white clover.”

 

“They’re the same!” Lance whines exasperatedly, shaking the flower in Keith’s face, his own face still skewed and puckered.

 

“No, that’s white. The other’s pink.”

 

Lance stares for a moment at the flower. It’s fluffy. It’s walnut-sized. It has tubular petals. Frustration wells in him and he shakes it at Keith again. “THEY’RE THE SAME.”

 

Keith grins at him and shrugs. “Whatever you say, Lance.” And he keeps walking along the path.

 

Lance fumes and glares at Keith’s back, but he drops the flower and reluctantly follows him through the grass.

 

After a few minutes of silence Keith stops abruptly and picks some little red berries off a low plant and hands one to Lance. “I apologize.” He says solemnly, holding eye contact that makes Lance want to believe him, but Lance is still feeling sore.

 

“Why should I trust you?” Lance snarks, nose quirking in distaste as he holds the berry loosely.

 

“Lance, you did that to yourself. I’d never steer you wrong like that.”

 

“You totally knew it was the wrong kind, and you let me eat it anyway! What if it was poison!?” Lance says exasperatedly.

 

“Then I woulda stopped you. Believe what you’d like but I do not want you to die.”

 

“Stop talking so proper!” Dean snarls, closing his hands into angry fists until he feels the berry squish and remembers it. He stops and they both stare at the red juice leaking off his palm.

 

Now Keith has an angry face and Lance deflates.

 

“I picked that for you! It was a special one!” Keith shouts, brow pulled low and shoulders high.

 

Lance frowns at the berry and at Keith. They’re both silent for a moment. The cicadas seem louder than ever, the wind nonexistent.

 

Lance sighs. “Sorry, Keith.” He mutters.

 

Keith humphs but deflates too. “I’m sorry too. I should have told you it was white. Because obviously you don’t know your colours.”

  
Lance’s eyes narrow and his mouth snarls but it’s ruined by a tiny smirk.

 

They both stare at the smushed berry in his hand.

 

“They’re sheep’s nipples.” Keith explains morosely.

 

Lance snorts a laugh and quickly moves to cover his mouth.

 

“What?” Keith asks, brow pulled low and defensive again.

 

Lance snorts another ugly laugh. “Sorry.” Another short laugh.

 

“WHAT?” Keith cries emphatically.

 

“… Nipples!” Lance shouts finally, bursting into a fit of giggles.

 

“Oh,” Keith says over Lance’s laughter. He examines the berry in his hand. “Is ‘nipples’ funny?”

 

And for some reason that sends Lance into another gale of laughter. 

 

When he calms down he pushes fondly into Keith’s shoulder, smiling wide and bright. “Yes, Keith, ‘nipples’ is funny.”

 

Keith cracks a little smile. Confused or not, he likes the sound of Lance’s laugh.

 

Lance finally examines the squashy berry in his palm again. “So what is a- uh… this?” he asks.

 

“It’s just a wild strawberry.” Keith explains through a grin.

 

Lance slurps the crushed fruit from his hands and smiles again at Keith. “Wow. Sheep’s nipples taste awesome.” He deadpans, and they both burst into giggles.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Warning for homophobia and homophobic slurs***
> 
> Thanks so much for reading guys, I'm sorry this chapter's taken so long to get out, my only excuse is school, as per usual :( But thanks so much for sticking with me.
> 
> I appreciate any and all comments/kudos/etc! Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> <3

July 25th, 1977

 

“I want to run away.”

Lance and Keith are lying in the short grass at the edge of Lance’s river. The Sun is hidden today behind grey clouds and warm wind pulls at their clothes.

“Why?” Lance asks softly after a beat.

He’d checked out the window after lunch, as has become tradition, and he’d seen the small, curled shape of Keith sitting at the edge of the forest.

“My house sucks.” He mutters.

Lance nods along, but pauses. He stares. He’s learned that if he stares quietly at Keith for long enough, it’ll coax more words out of him than Lance’d ever get trying to converse normally with him. Lance is okay with it though. It’s actually nice, taking long, patient turns to purge all your thoughts without interruption or judgement.

Lance is quickly starting to prefer the strange, exciting, quiet company of Keith to most other people on the planet, save maybe Gus.

And true to theory, Keith continues. “Jed doesn’t understand me. Doesn’t even give a damn about me.”

“Not even a little?” Lance asks.

“Don’t think so.” Keith’s tone is low and sulky and his arms are crossed over his body. His toes curl and rip up the fine grass. “He’s old. He just doesn’t get it.”

“Get what?” Lance asks, eyebrow piqued.

Keith stares solemnly at Lance, gaze even and wise and beyond his years. “Life.” And then Lance barks an unwarranted laugh. “What?” Keith squeals indignantly.

“Dude, you’re so dramatic.” He says through a grin.

“I am not, I’m being sincere.” Keith growls, brows lowered and accusatory towards Lance. “Maybe you don’t get it either. Why am I talking to you?” He moves to get up but Lance’s chuckle dies and he grabs Keith’s arm gently.

“Hey. Hey, I was kidding.” Keith glares down at Lance who smiles up at him. “Come on, Keith. Let’s go run away.”

And Keith’s expression softens and he uses Lance’s hold on his forearm to pull Lance up to stand beside him. Keith breaks into a jog towards Lance’s house and Lance follows close.

They pass the decrepit white house and continue through the front yard, stopping when they cross the gravel road and turn east, away from the main town, where the road fades into the distance.

Keith and Lance walk down the road, relaxed and quiet and sharing small looks and smiles.

“You ever done this before?” Lance asks Keith.

In truth, Lance’s heart is thumping hard and fast in his chest. He’s not telling his father. Gus doesn’t know where Lance is going. Heck, even Lance doesn’t know where Lance is going. He can feel the anxiety and dread creeping over his shoulders and he knows his father is going to yell at him again. But this is the fourth time Lance has gone on an adventure without telling his father and he’s getting used to taking the yelling and the punishments without talking back, without taking them to heart. It’s getting easier to disobey.

“Yeah, I tried once a couple years ago.” Keith husks. “But that was when Dan Dell was livin’ in your house and he caught me sneaking through his yard, brought me back to Jed.”

“Is Dan Dell dead?” Lance asks mildly, kicking the rock him and Keith are passing back and forth as they walk.

“Uh… yeah.” Keith’s tone turns dark and Lance pauses and turns to stare at him.

Keith stops as well, and he doesn't look at Lance.

Lance knows this is not a good sign. He can feel the tense energy pouring off Keith. His voice turns soft and he steps a little closer on instinct. “Wha’ happened?”

Keith clears his throat and fiddles, poking his tongue through the gap in his teeth. He stares at the gravel and Lance knows that he’s looking for words in his head. “Got beat up real bad.”

Lance’s face quirks. He’s never heard of someone getting beat up to death before. He’s seen his dad beat a couple people up, sure, but never bad enough to kill ‘em.

“Why?” Now Lance’s voice is small and tentative too.

Lance’s gut feels low and and anxious, feeding off Keith’s obvious discomfort and suddenly he’s not sure if he wants to know.

“He was… well…” Keith clears his throat again before his eyes harden, shielding himself, and he looks up and stares Lance in the eye hard. His voice is strong again. “He was a queer, Lance.”

 

Lance can feel his eyebrows raise, his eyes widen. They don’t talk about that sort of stuff much in his family, but he’s heard the word before, heard other slurs and a few jokes and some off-hand comments. Enough to know it’s a bad thing to be. It always seemed like more of a myth, to Lance. Something he never really had to think or worry about. But here? In his house? He wonders if his dad knows.

 

“Oh.” Is all Lance can manage.

Both their eyes are wide and neither of them are breaking the gaze, but Keith zones out a little, looking through Lance. Lance waits patiently for Keith to finish his thoughts, and Keith’s fingers starting fidgeting with the ratty hem of his shirt.

Keith remembers the night vividly, remembers the shouts and sounds of scuffling and skin-on-skin, remembers his family and the other families rushing out to see what all the fuss is about, remembers one of the older neighbour kids, Jacob, only eleven, reacting violently, lunging forward to help kindly old Dan Dell, remembers his uncle catching Jacob firmly by the arm, pulling him back and telling him sternly not to get involved in matters like these. Keith hadn’t understood it at the time. He’d just seen an old family friend getting beaten, over and over and over, on his front lawn. Everyone had watched silently until Dan Dell had stopped moving and Keith’s uncle and a few other men had walked over, shooing the just attackers off and helping Dan to his feet and into his house. Keith had noticed another man in Dan’s house, just a dark silhouette in the doorway, taking Dan’s heavy, motionless body from the local men and bringing him inside. Dan Dell had lived through the rest of that night and part of the next day, and only the strange man in his house had attended the funeral.

Keith’s stomach clenches hot and painful and his cheeks burn. He’d had nightmares about that evening for weeks afterwards.

He only tells Lance that Dan had been attacked on the front lawn, and that everyone made a point to forget about it immediately. Lance doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t need the sounds Dan and his body made, the sharp cracks of breaking bones, the low, moaned pleas falling off Dan’s lips, the solid thunk of flesh hitting flesh. He doesn’t need the smell of blood in the air, the heavy, heavy silence of the neighbourhood. The wet, grinding, visceral sounds when the local men picked Dan up off his lawn. Lance doesn’t need that.

The silence between the boys is thick and palpable and they meander slowly down the road. Lance breaks it eventually, his little hands clenched tight into fists at his sides.

“I just don’t get it.” He says exasperatedly. “It’s not hurting anybody for a boy to love a boy instead of a girl.”

“Lance,” Keith warns, looking around them on instinct for hidden ears. His tone is low and warning, his face hard. “It’s wrong.”

“I know, Keith! My dad’s told me it’s wrong, but nobody ever tells me why.”

“It’s sick. People who think like that are sick in the head. It’s unnatural. A family is supposed to be a man and a woman and children.” Lance doesn’t say anything, he’s just pouting a little at the ground so Keith keeps going. “Lance,” His voice is quieter, so Lance looks over at him. “I’ve seen what happens to people like that. All I know is being queer must be bad to make good people do things like what I’ve seen.”

Their steps husk dryly over the gravel of the road. They have no shadows from the absence of the Sun. “Okay.” Lance’s voice is smaller than Keith has ever heard it. They’re both silent again. Then, “How… how do you know if you’re queer?”

Keith shrugs. “I’d guess you’re just born knowing it.”

Lance thinks about that for a minute. “One time my Dad told me that if you hang around queer people they can turn you queer, too. They can make you into one of them.” He waits for a beat. “You’re not… queer… are you, Keith?” Lance side eyes him.

Keith just shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Are you?”

Lance shakes his head wildly. “No. No.” He pauses. “I mean… I don’t think so either.” He stops walking. “Keith, will you tell me if you ever think you might be turning queer?”

Keith nods violently. “Yeah. And you tell me too if you think you’re turning queer, okay?”

Lance spits into his palm and holds his hand out to Keith, who spits into his own and they clasp them firmly together, shaking them hard once and then turning to wipe them on the tall, gritty grass lining the road.  
 

 

Keith eventually leads Lance to a wooden fence off the road. Keith vaults easily over it and Lance follows as well as he can. Lance sees horses farther into the field and eyes Keith.

“So… what are we doing here?”

“Walking’s takin’ too long.” Keith deadpans. His eyes are fixed on the horses and Lance stops walking.

“Keith, I am not stealing a horse. I don’t even know how to ride a horse!” He whisper-hisses, looking around him as if someone’s watching them.

Keith looks at Lance briefly over his shoulder. “Lance, it’s easy. And the MacPhersons are probably out anyways. They both work in town.”

Lance watches Keith walk away for a total of six seconds before he groans angrily at himself and chases after him, running past him and smacking him on the back of the head as he passes.

“Hey!” Keith yells indignantly.

“If we get in trouble, I’m never talking to you again.” Lance shouts, but he stops when he gets to the four horses clustered together and watching them intently. He can hear Keith laugh behind him but when he turns, Keith isn’t walking towards the horses and Lance, he’s turned and walks until he’s at the fence near the MacPhersons’ large farmhouse and he grabs a loop of thin twine and a small knife off a little wagon parked beside the main gate.

Keith jogs back to Lance and one of the horses, a little grey one, reaches forward and sniffs at him kindly. Keith pats him on the nose and calls him Merle and it makes Lance smile.

“This is baler twine, Lance.” He waves the bundle of orange, stringy rope in Lance’s face. “Very useful, very versatile. But if you see it in fields, pick it up so animals don’t get tangled in it.” It’s obvious Keith is parroting lessons he’s been told before. It’s cute.

Lance just nods and Keith pulls out a length of it and approaches the grey pony and starting knotting it around his face. Merle doesn't seem to mind, only stands patiently until Keith finishes his crude halter and reins and he cuts the last piece and moves to another pony, this one white with brown patches, and starts again.

“Lance, this is Buck.” Keith says happily. He pets Buck on the nose. “I think you and Buck will get along well.”

And when Keith finishes, he gestures from Lance to Buck and heat courses through Lance’s lungs. He’s scared. Terrified, actually, if he’s being honest. Buck is big. Much, much bigger than a dog and Lance’s not even that comfortable with dogs.

“Keith-“ He starts but Keith cuts him off.

“Lance.” And Keith’s tone is even and low like it always it. His stare is deep and intrusive and serious. Lance stares at Keith, ever-calm, and he breathes deeper. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

So Lance nods, and he walks up to Buck and pets him gently, and Keith boosts him up and then he’s sitting four feet, maybe four and a half, off the ground, feet dangling awkwardly, hands gripping fluffy white mane and thin orange reins tightly.

Before Lance registers it, Keith is on top of Merle and is kicking his feet feebly, talking softly to the pony who starts to move past Buck. Lance panics again, not sure how to make the big guy go or turn or stop. For God’s sake, how does he stop!? But Buck just ambles lazily after Keith and Merle and Lance’s anxiety eases again.

“Pull on the left rein to go left, pull on the right to go right. Pull back to stop, squeeze him with your legs to make him go.” Keith calls over his shoulder.

“What if I fall off?” Lance says, his wavering voice betraying him.

“You won’t.” Keith says easily.

“How do you know?”

And Keith stops Merle short and he twists around, his spine curving, one hand propped up on Merle’s grey rump near his tail. “Lance.” And he’s using that face again, that voice that makes it impossible for Lance to not trust him. “I’m taking care of you, okay? I won’t let you fall.”  
And what Keith says is stupid and doesn’t even make sense but Lance finds himself nodding and Merle starts walking again, tail swishing at the occasional fly, and Lance tries his best to breathe evenly and steer Buck right along behind Keith and Merle.

Buck tosses his head a couple times as Lance tries to pull him over to be directly behind Merle, and Lance reads that as a warning. Lance decides Buck probably knows what to do better than he does so he drops the orange twine and forces himself to relax into his seat, petting the soft brown and white patches under him as Buck follows Merle through the field, the other two horses following close behind of their own accord. Lance settles into the gentle rocking of Buck’s walk, only tensing when Buck stumbles a little over a rabbit hole in the ground. Buck occasionally stalls to grab a mouthful of chamomile or clover and Lance actually finds himself enjoying the peace and ease of sitting on top of the chubby pony. Keith stops Merle when they reach a fence in the farthest corner of the field.

“Keith?” Lance says.

“Yes?” Keith calls back.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re running away, remember?”

Lance sighs frustratedly but realizes it’s probably useless arguing with Keith about it. Lance knows he’s just going to end up following Keith anyways so he sighs again and shuts up and Keith leans over and flicks open the latch and guides Merle through the gate.

Merle turns tightly around to face Lance as he and Buck follow them through the gate and then Keith leans over again and quickly pushes the gate shut so the other two horses can’t follow. He locks it deftly and then they turn around and follow the path that the gate opens to, which is a thin, dark path that disappears quickly into the trees - a forest quite similar to the one behind Lance and Keith’s houses.

Lance watches the easy sway and rock of Keith’s body and head in front of him, watches the way the little bit of wind that flows through the forest catches Keith’s shaggy black hair to play with. Keith’s toes wiggle and play against Merle’s sides and his head tilts back every so often to stare up at the trees. Lance follows his eyes. The sunlight’s trying to make an appearance, small rays making their way through the canopy of pines and maples and birches above them. Lance stares at a small white moth that lands on his thumb. The air is sweet.

Merle stops when the path opens into a small clearing of tall grass and he lowers his head to eat early apples fallen prematurely to the ground. Buck copies him and Lance copies Keith when he lets himself fall back, lying splayed along the pony’s spine. Lance lowers himself slowly though, fighting to keep himself supple and balanced as the skin beneath him shifts with every small step Buck takes to reach another apple. Lance settles into the shape of Buck’s back, and he smiles.

“Keith,” he says. “ This is… really nice.”

Keith nods a few feet away from him. “ Yeah.”

Lance plays with Buck’s short hairs and squints into the late-afternoon sun. He thinks about his Father, about the fight he knows is waiting for him at home. He thinks of the Sun hitting Keith’s hair at sunset - it turns it blue and orange- and he thinks of the laugh Keith sometimes laughs when Lance says something particularly funny which makes Keith quirk his nose and show all his teeth and the one missing. He decides that he will always choose Keith over his Father. Lance’s chest swells with pride and bravery. He looks over at Keith, who’s blinking lazily at the sky, waving his arms slowly in the air because the wind over them feels nice, kicking his feet slowly to feel the wind through his toes, more at ease bareback on a pony in the forest than he is in his own home, and Lance’s throat feels thick for reasons he doesn’t yet understand. He decides in that moment that Keith is going to be more than a friend. He’s going to be family.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An in-between sort of chapter, but tender and sweet, hopefully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR NON-GRAPHIC PHYSICAL CHILD ABUSE

July 23, 1977

 

Their first summer passes altogether too quickly. It sneaks up on them, because in the heat of the moment, time feels absolutely powerless. As if there’s no past, no future. Just one constant, sun-drenched present.

 

Slow, fast, endless.

 

Warm and beautiful.

 

Lance has never felt such freedom in his life, as he does that first summer with Keith. His Father still looks for a job, fixes cars for people in the meantime, spends his nights at the bar, comes home late and loud and angry. 

 

And though Lance’s days may be filled with prairie wind and leopard frogs, his nights are much less pleasant.

 

There’s yelling. Gus hides. David doesn’t like Keith much. Dislikes Jed even more. Tells Lance that Keith is a bad influence, makes him irresponsible. Tells him he’s shirking his familial duties. Lance should be around home more, be taking care of Gus, of the house, like a man.

 

Once, Lance gathers enough courage to argue that he’s not his mother. Doesn’t have to do everything his mother did, take her place. He’s eight.

 

He gets hit that night, the first time in a long time.

 

 

 

Keith meets him the next day, halfway between their houses, on the deer path around the wheat field.

 

Lance’s eyes are trained down, posture small. He knows it looks bad. His dad used to be more careful, hitting places that his shirt covered. Not this time, unfortunately

 

Keith approaches him slowly, carefully, just as Lance had approached Keith on their first day. A hand, small and dirty, nails bitten down, reaches out to cup Lance’s face, tilts it up so Keith can see it better. He tuts. Older than his years. Lance closes his eyes when Keith brushes a thumb over the welt on the crest of his cheekbone, soft as a butterfly.

 

“I can fix this.” Keith says, sharp and decisive.

 

Lance can’t meet his gaze.

 

He grabs Lance’s hand and leads the boy into the woods. They end up following Lance’s creek, for what feels like a long time, in silence. Even the birds and bugs are quiet today, but Lance takes comfort in the heady, damp, warmth of the woods, in Keith’s familiar hand in his, leading him strong and unwavering.

 

They stop when the creek opens up into something closer to a river. The water bubbles faster, angrier, than the trickle near Lance’s house. 

 

“Come on,” Keith ushers Lance to crouch at the bank, tugging his hands gently. His voice is softer than Lance has ever heard it.

 

Lance allows Keith to dunk his head in the creek for a second, two, three. Again. Again.

 

Then they sit back.

 

“I could get some ice at my house if you want. It’ll help most of the bruising go down.” Keith suggests softly.

 

Lance stares into the rushing water, face cold but cheeks burning. For some reason tears start to well in his eyes, hot and stinging.

 

His lip trembles.

 

In an instant, Keith is crouched next to him, rubbing his back soothingly, free hand perched awkwardly on Lance’s knee.

 

“Hey, hey, hey,”

 

He’s trying _so_ hard. His movements are a little stilted, a little unsure, but Lance sinks into the hold, letting Keith’s chest pillow his head as he lets a wet sob bubble up in his throat, tears mixing with the river water on his face.

 

Keith curls into him more, sitting down to better wrap his arms around him. More soft muttering, senseless words meant to make Lance feel better. They do. He does. Lance clutches at Keith’s arm and shakes his head, wiping snot off his face.

 

“I’m so _stupid_ ,”

 

“No. Hey, no, look at me.” Keith grabs Lance’s face, uncharacteristically gentle. “You’re not stupid. You’re not. Don’t say that.”

 

Lance stares at him, at his eyes, honest and round and dark, before another sob rips from him. He pulls his face out of Keith’s hand, buries it in his shoulder instead.

 

There’s silence, for a couple minutes. Keith’s hand stills on Lance’s back.

 

“… was it my fault?”

 

They lock eyes again. Stray tendrils of wind grab and play with their hair.

 

“It was, wasn’t it?”

 

Lance’s face crumples again. “No, no, no, it was my fault.”

 

“I don’t believe you.” Keith says. He sounds more distant, harsher.

 

That hurts Lance’s heart even more. He extracts himself from Keith’s grasp. Grabs _his_ face, this time.

 

“Keith. It’s not your fault.”

 

“Well it’s not your fault either.” His tone is petulant, argumentative, and it makes Lance smile, just a little.

 

“Okay.” He scooches away a little more. Sniffles. Wipes his face. “If it’s not my fault, then it’s not your fault, okay? Both scot-free.”

 

Keith regards him for a minute, brows low, mouth pouting. “It has to be someone’s fault.”

 

Lance turns to stare at the creek. He extends his legs, curling his toes in the mulchy earth. He shrugs. “I think it’s just something that happens… It just… is.”

 

Keith lets out a sound of disagreement, or forfeit, Lance isn’t sure, but he copies Lance’s pose, staring at the water and wiggling his toes.

 

They fall back in tandem, seasons of pine needles and moss cushioning them. 

 

“Thanks, Keith.” 

 

Keith sighs, a resigned sort of sound. “Anytime.”

 

+++++

 

Lance does watches over Gus more, after that, but most of his days are still spent wild.

 

Keith teaches him well. Is good to him. Being with him makes up for the consequences with his Father, tenfold, easy. Lance would gladly bear it over and over again if it meant he could be with Keith in the fields and forest forever.

 

Keith tends his wounds and he tends Keith’s.

 

Inside and out.

 

 

And Lance learns. 

 

They climb all the trees they can, falling out of them, occasionally.

 

They play in the cornfields, hide and seek and chase and explorers, even though the leaves cut their arms and faces.

 

They catch strange bugs and more fireflies and even a praying mantis, on one cooler day.

 

They eat more berries, finding the best bushes on the far side of the forest, that takes over an hour to trek to.

 

 

On one overcast, drizzly day, they take shelter under an old turkey hunting blind in the middle of one of the fields, and make up a map, of all the best bushes, favourite trees, best hiding spots.

 

They hide it in a tin box Keith pilfers from his attic, under the soft earth at the base of an oak tree midway between their houses.

 

Soon, the box starts to fill. Treasures. Bullet casings and cocoons and cicada shells and a nest. A jaw bone, too, of a squirrel, Keith thinks.

 

Every time Lance looks at it, he feels warmth surge in his chest, happiness so complete it spills out of him in a broad, toothy smile, and his hands fly to his heart. Keith stares at him, calls him weird, but a matching grin twists his mouth, and he has to look away and kick at the grass.

 

 

+++++

 

August 2nd, 1977

 

It’s when they’re seated in their underwear in Lance’s creek that Keith first asks, hesitant and stuttering, when Lance’s birthday is.

 

Lance stares at him for a moment, small smile twisting his lips, brows high and soft as his fingers mindlessly pet mossy stones.

 

“Why d’you wanna know that?” Lance asks, coy, teasing.

 

Keith gets defensive, as Lance predicted, avoiding eye contact and pouting and crossing his arms over his bare chest. He shrugs. “I dunno.”

 

“Hm.” Lance lets himself fall back into the bubbling water, staring into the cloudless sky. Of all the skies Lance has seen, Kansas skies looks the most endless. “Well I hate to say it, but you’re too late.”

 

“Winter baby?” Keith suggests, finally looking back at Lance, though shy. His cheeks and ears are pink.

 

Lance shakes his head, grin rueful. “Nah.”

 

“Well when was it?”

 

“Guess.”

 

Keith groans. He hates guessing games. Lance knows. He makes a point of making him guess often.

 

“Uh… April 1st.” He finally drawls.

 

Lance snorts. “No. Why April 1st?”

 

Keith kicks gently at his shins. “Cuz you’re a damn fool.”

 

Lance sits up, shrieking and splashing water at Keith. “Hey!”

 

A smile breaks over Keith’s face, wide and unbridled, and he laughs and splashes Lance back.

 

They tussle before Lance gives and flops back into one of the deeper parts of the creek. He dunks his face to wash off the fine sheen of sweat. They’re still mid-heatwave.

 

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you.”

 

“I don’t get why it’s such a big sec-“

 

“It was last week.” Lance says it quick, quiet, tensing like he knows he’s gonna get hit. He’s not wrong.

 

Keith pauses for a second, jaw dropped, brows furrowed, before launching himself at Lance. He slips on a slick rock but goes with it, landing bodily on Lance before pummelling him with weak punches and slaps.

 

“What the heck!? Lance!”

 

He batts Keith away with a scream and a giggle. “What? It’s not a big deal!”

 

Keith stops. Stares. His expression is so serious it causes Lance’s smile to drop, just a little. 

 

“Yes it is.”

 

“Tch.” Lance pushes Keith’s face away. It’s too honest, too open. Makes his chest hurt, for whatever reason. “No, it’s really not.” Keith just stares at him, eyes hurt. Lance feels… bad, all of a sudden. “I spent my last birthday in the backseat of our car. And the one before that.” He tries to explain again.  “No big deal.”

 

Keith’s face drops further, brows coming together, bottom lip sticking out, shoulders rising. He crosses his arms over his chest again.

 

“It _is_.” Keith insists.

 

And with that, he stands, in nothing dripping wet, saggy old underwear, and stomps off.

 

“ _Keith_ ,” Lance calls after him, posture drooping. “Hey,”

 

He watches him go, figure getting smaller and smaller until he turns around the corner of the field, wheat high and billowing. Lance notices he didn’t take his clothes. 

 

With a sigh, he stands as well, and does his best arranging their t-shirts and shorts on the dry, baked rocks lining the creek so they can dry.

 

With one last long look in Keith’s direction, throat tight and head hung, Lance goes back inside. 

 

 

 


End file.
